


The Gryffin and the Rose

by kayfontaine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 10th Century, Blood and Violence, Canon Compliant, Dark, Dark Ages, Dragons, Epic Battles, Historical References, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Founders Era, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Middle Ages, Pre-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Swordfighting, Vikings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28309977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayfontaine/pseuds/kayfontaine
Summary: The year is 983. Godric is known throughout Britain as a fearsome warrior and the son of a Viking king. But despite his magical abilities, he's never been able to save the ones he loves from the horror and subjugation imposed upon witches and wizards by the nonmagical. And he has spent the last 4 years hiding from the ghosts of his past. But when his childhood friend, Rowena, the Lady Hraefnclae, approaches him with a proposal to build a school, he is forced to confront his demons, both internal and external, in order to help her. It just so happens that one of his demons is a man with black eyes and a heavy locket...This story is heavily influenced by The Last Kingdom and The Evening & The Morning, containing violence typical for stories about the 10th century. It is also a story about friendship, love, acceptance and forgiveness.





	1. September, 983

__________________________________________________________________

**Brycgstow (Bristol), England**

Godric was surprised that he felt happy. And, what's more, that he felt happy to be going home.

He thought as much to himself as he and the rest of the English army rode south along the River Avon that morning. It was a crisp, clear September day, and the sun was warm on their backs. It would be time for the harvest soon, which is why they were headed home.

Godric pondered his surprise as his horse meandered through the fields of south England. He'd called Brycgstow "home" in this thoughts. That was curious. He had only lived there for three years. But he figured he had no where else to call home and he shrugged. Brycgstow would have to do. 

However, he had been even more surprised to find that he felt happy. If calling Brycgstow home was curious, this bordered on ridiculous. He laughed to himself. Happy. What a concept. He didn't particularly like his profession, nor the house he lived in, nor the majority of people he interacted with every day. In fact, he was used to being so perpetually _unhappy_ that this made him uncomfortable. He was accustomed to anger, sadness, even ambivalence. But happiness? It had been awhile since he'd felt that.

He supposed it was because of the season that laid before him. Winter was an easier one than all the others. In these months it was unlikely there would be a raid from the Welsh or Vikings into England from which he might be called to protect people, or pay off the raiders. And there would be no excursions into Wales on their part either. Sure, winter would still contain squabbles between townspeople where we'd have to intervene, but that was easy compared to war. For that, he was thankful. But was thankful the same as happy?

It was from one of these excursions that he and this army were returning now. They had been gone for nearly three months on a mission dictated by King Æthelred to stomp out Welsh raiding parties. They had left with close to 100 men and were returning with only 70. It had been a hard-fought summer and Godric, nearing 40, was exhausted. The last few weeks he'd found himself longing for the small comfort of a bed that wasn't dirt and a pillow that wasn't a rock. Or decent food and a day spent without the prospect of having to kill someone. He was getting too old for this. He looked ahead, trying to tell where they were. They had to be close...

Ealdorman Leofric was at the head of the unit. He was a young man, perhaps in his early 20s, and Godric found him to be a fearsome fighter, despite not being a wizard. And although he showed the witches and wizards of his county no special favors or love, he did not treat them harshly either. Indifference was better than violence to be sure. Godric was thankful that he'd been sent here, to Ealdorman Leofric, rather than somewhere like Plymouth, where witches and wizards were burned with frightening regularity. And they had a decent relationship. Leofric knew that Godric was more experienced, and he listened to him when it mattered. 

"Brycgstow, ahead!" called the ealdorman's squire, as the city came into view. 

The party quickened their pace. The men were all battle weary and no doubt had similar thoughts about a season spent at home. With the harvest approaching there would be food and ale aplenty for the next couple months, and most men had families waiting for them too. There would be wives and children cheering for them in the streets in just a few moments. And many would be filled with relief that their husbands and fathers had returned to them safely. Some, of course, were about to discover they'd been widowed, or orphaned, and while Godric sympathized, he also knew that wizarding families were much more likely to be torn apart, and for things less important than keeping England safe. And so he did not lose much sleep over the feelings of nonmagical folk.

Eadmund, a friend and fellow wizard, pulled his horse next's to Godric's and matched his pace.

"You sure there's no one waiting for you today?" he asked playfully. "I'm sure many a woman, witch or not, would be willing to warm the bed of the Young Gryffin tonight."

Eadmund grinned as he spoke. He was young like Leofric, and dark haired. Handsome too, and therefore popular with the women of the town. Well, the witches anyway. Non-witches rarely flirted with wizards unless they were being paid to do so. Most thought wizards beneath them. Like Godrik, Eadmund had black face tattoos. But being young, Eadmund's only covered the right side of his face. Godric's were everywhere. 

His friend's question conjured an image to his mind. A woman with sandy hair and olive eyes. A warm smile. A little house with white roses... he pushed the thoughts away. Depsite Eadmund's jest, Godric knew there would be no one waiting for him in Brycgstow, at least, not in the way Eadmund was describing. This was a fact with which he was fine. He turned to his friend, deciding to ignore the question.

"That's hardly a fair nickname, anymore, is it?" he replied. Godric was known throughout England as a Gryffin, his animagus. "I'm an old man now by most standards."

"Nonsense. You might live another 80 years."

Godric didn't reply. It was likely true, and the exhaustion that had been threatening him all summer seemed to settle into his bones. 80 more years. He frowned.

"Wow I might live another 100," Eadmund mused, not noticing Godric's expression. "What will I do with all that time?"

 _Drinking and whoring if these past few years are any indication_ , Godric thought. But instead he said, "You'll figure it out. Maybe get a wife? Get out of the war mongering business if you can."

Now it was Eadmund's turn to frown. "I like the warmongering business fine. I'm good at it, and it's making me rich." 

Godric remembered a time when he'd felt the same way, before she had changed all of that.

"One day you might get tired of fighting the wars waged by other men. Men who don't give fuck if the wizards involved live or die."

"I don't need them to give a fuck," retorted Eadmund. "I can look out for myself. And besides, most of the men here fight a war waged by someone who doesn't care about them. The ealdorman, the king, none of them care about these men beyond the axes they can carry into a field and the taxes they can pay from working it. And at least I have a wand to protect myself."

"True," was all Godric could manage. It was true, to an extent. If a wizard liked fighting, and was good at it, it was an easy way to get on the good side of the English nobles, and make money in the process. Warfare was a lucrative business, and this raid had been no exception. Most of them were returning with pockets of coin or other valuable items to sell. Some had even taken young Welsh women captive to sell as slaves, a business Godric found distasteful. So sure, one could certainly come out ahead at summer's end. But once you had your own land, and a family to care about, the stakes were higher. And Eadmund would realize that one day.

His friend continued, "Will you let me buy you an ale when we return? There's a lass at the brewhouse who will be expecting me, and she might give us a cup or two for cheap?"

Godric smiled, but shook his head. "I've got to run an errand."

_____

The main road in Brycgstow was crowded, as expected, when they rode in over the bridge. The townspeople cheered and wept as the army rode though. Godric noticed that he and Eadmund, and the other wizards in the group, did not get the same warm greeting as the other men. But the mood in the town was positive, and no one spat or booed them either. Again, he'd take indifference over violence any day.

"You sure I can't buy you a drink?" asked Eadmund, jumping off his horse at an alehouse. "Your errand can surely wait another hour."

"No," Godric replied, another use in mind for his new coin. "There's something I want to check on. I'll find you later."

Eadmund raised an eyebrow. "Something? Or someone?" But Godric was already out of earshot.

The truth was that there was a young witch, a child, that begged near the church some streets away. She was a tiny little thing, thin and pale from hunger and dressed in rags. Godric had discovered her back in the spring and recognized her as a witch immediately. She had six white dots tattooed over her right eye, the markings given to all magical children. White for girls, black for boys. He'd asked her why she was alone.

"My parents are dead, sir," she'd told him. "And the abbey won't take me in 'cause of me magic."

He'd almost asked what had happened to her parents, but he could guess. Burned, most likely, as was the case with many. He'd given her some coin and some bread, though he hadn't much to spare then, and she'd told him her name was Wulfgifu.

After that day, he'd attempted to care for her as much as he could. Giving her food and coin when he could sneak it. He'd had to sneak it, of course. The town believed she was evil and to be seen with her would be damaging to his fragile reputation, even if he was magical too. He'd wanted to buy her some new clothes, but found the task to be too conspicuous. How could he, a known bachelor, buy a child's dress without raising questions? He couldn't. And it was a shame, because English nights were cold.

Now it was different, though. He'd snagged a small dress and a winter shawl on his travels, and had plenty of coin and food to share with her. He thought of how happy they'd be to see each other when he approached. He'd been gone for so long, since midsummer.

But when he approached the church, she was nowhere to be found. _That's good_ , he told himself. _She's found somewhere to go_. But he couldn't shake a more sinister feeling. He considered himself to be a lousy seer, but even so, he had good intuition. It's part of what made him a good fighter.

He got off his horse and decided to walk around the building. It was eerily quiet here. The whole town would have gone out to greet the returning army, but he would have still expected some to be near the church. It was one of the only stone structures in town, and also one of the only buildings available to the general public for use. And so many would stand around it's outer walls, attempting to sell food or goods to passersby. Now, however, it was deserted. His sinister feeling grew into dread.

He did not have to search for long, and he'd heard the buzzing of flies before he saw it: a bundle of gray rags curled up next to the building, with a small foot sticking out. It was purple. 

He fell to his knees in front of the bundle, breathing heavy and blinking fast. He pulled back a piece of the shawl covering the head enough to see a honey-colored curl. It was Wulfgifu, to be sure. He didn't need to see more. This explained the absence of people around the church. No one wanted to sell fruit next to the body of a dead girl. And no one wanted to touch the body of a witch. And besides, she was beginning to smell.

He closed his eyes in defeat and sank back on his heels. She'd died not long ago, judging by the state of the foot he could see, perhaps less than a week. If he'd been back sooner, would he have been able to save her? He didn't know. _Fuck_ , he thought to himself over and over. _Fuck. I should have done more for her_. 

Suddenly he felt foolish about carrying the dress and the shawl back from Wales. What had been his plan, anyway? Feed her and clothe her until she was old enough to... what? Sell herself into slavery? Get murdered like her parents? She was a pariah after all, and likely to die sooner rather than later. Still, he lamented. It didn't have to be like this. It _shouldn't_ be like this. He'd failed her. Just like his family, just like...

He stood, took the winter shawl from his pack, and used it to pick up her body. Delicately he placed it on the back of his horse, and started walking. He did not cry, for the death of his people were all too common these days. But a heaviness sank into his chest all the same.

______

The sun had set by the time he'd finished digging and when he looked up, the sky was a bright mixture of reds and oranges. 

He'd borrowed a shovel from the sheriff's house where he lived and taken Wulfgifu's body to a graveyard near the edge of the woods. He was a mile or so from town, and could see the fires of the city blazing in the distance. It was a wizard graveyard. Wizards and witches could not be buried in the Christian graveyards, or be prayed over by a priest, but that was fine. Who would want their prayers anyway? Much better to be out here in the fresh air than buried near the noise of the city.

Despite his exhaustion, he was thankful for the distraction that the digging provided. It would have been easier to create a grave with magic, but in the absence of a proper ceremony, digging her a grave with this own hands felt like an appropriate way to say goodbye. 

"Ey, what you doing out 'ere?" a voice called. Godric looked out from the hole and squinted into the quickly darkening evening. A man's figure approached, and he saw it was Ælfstan. He rolled his eyes. Ælfstan was one of Godric's fellow sheriffsmen, responsible for enforcing the law in Brycgstow and collecting taxes. But Ælfstan was not a wizard, and they did not get along to say the last. He was a buzz kill and brown-noser, full of a holier-than-thou attitude he especially loved to tout around magical folk. Intensifying Godrik's hatred of him was the fact that he hadn't gone along with the army into Wales. Someone had to enforce the law in the city, but Godric imagined he'd had a grand time being the most important man in Brycgstow all summer. 

"Oh, I didn't realize it was you," Ælfstan said, once he saw Godric's unmistakable red hair and beard. "I'd heard someone was out here and I came to investigate."

To snoop, more likely, thought Godric, though he didn't say it. 

He saw Ælfstan's eyes move from the hole in the ground, to the bundle on the back of the horse, and then back to him. "What you doing? What's tha'?"

Godric felt his anger rise. " _That_ ," he snarled, "is Wulfgifu. And _this_ is her grave that I'm digging."

Ælfstan knitted his eyesbrows together in confusion, then realization. "Ohhh, the witch at the church. Why you botherin' with that? You could just leave 'er in the woods."

Godric wanted to scream, but formed two fists to keep himself in check, thankful they were below the dirt and that Ælfstan wouldn't feel threatened by them. He took a deep breath before responding.

"I am _bothering_ with this, because no one in Brycgstow could be bothered to bury her until now. And before then no one could be _bothered_ to help her, not even the nuns at the abbey."

Ælfstan folded his arms. "Well of course the nuns couldn't take her. She was a witch!"

"She was a LITTLE GIRL!" Godric snapped, roaring at his colleague. He leapt onto the ground and saw a flash of fear in Ælfstan's eyes and realized he'd transformed, just briefly, into his animagus. 

Ælfstan turned on his heels and ran back into the city, stumbling along the way. Godric was still angry, and relished in the display of fear he saw. Even so, he knew he had made a mistake. For he was not only a wizard, but a Dane as well. And for him to threaten a non-wizard with magic was a crime. He could be burned for it. _Good _, he thought darkly, _let them come for me_. Hadn't he been ready to die for years? He didn't think it would come to that, though. He was a war hero, after all. And he had the ealdorman's respect. Ælfstan was not a war hero, and Godric very much doubted that Leofric even knew who he was. Godric would probably get off with a warning and that would be that.__

____

____

He turned back to his work. It was dark now, and he'd have to finish the the rest by moonlight. He took Wulfgifu's body off his horse and laid it in the dirt on her back. She looked peaceful here, unlike the way her body hugged the church wall in the city, as though she were trying to defend herself against something. _She could be sleeping_ , he thought. And he grabbed the shovel again.

An hour later the hole in the ground was transformed into a mound of earth. It was a cool night, fragrant with the autumn smells of drying grass and fires, and he was happy for the chill. Digging was backbreaking work, and he was tired before he'd started. He sat near the mound and surveyed it. He wished he could create a marker for her, or at least make something to indicate who laid here. He had nothing. The heaviness fell upon his chest again. Her parents were gone. And the town would forget about her as quick as the seasons changed. Without a marker, she would exist only in his memory. 

He thought of her as she was when she was alive. He'd barely known her. Who would she have become, if given a chance? She might have crafted potions to heal sick children, cast spells to save rotten crops, or even foreseen the movement of attacking armies. Now the world would never know. 

He realized too that she was the same age he'd been when his life had turned upside down. When his father had fallen in battle, when his mother and brothers were slaughtered, and when a man with a strange accent had saved him from the burning of Jorvik and taken him to Wintanceastre...

Godric thought he could have just as easily ended up like Wulfgifu, rather than the way he was now. Would that have been better? He didn't have an answer. 

With a humorless chuckle he remembered feeling happy this afternoon on his ride into town. Eadmund had seemed happy too. And Eadmund was probably deep into his ale right now, smiling and laughing and flirting. But as quick as Godric had found himself feeling positive earlier, he had returned to his usual state: utterly miserable. He stared at the mound. _It shouldn't be like this_. 

Some time later he heard an owl hoot, bringing him out of his thoughts and back into the present. It was dark and the fires in the far away town looked mostly extinguished. He didn't know how long he'd been out there. But the breeze was cold now, and his horse needed a stable. 

Stiffly, he picked up the shovel, and gave one last nod to the grave. _I'm sorry, Wulfgifu_. Then he mounted his horse, and rode home.


	2. November, 983

**Brycgstow (Bristol), England**

The fire in front of Godric held his eyes, but his mind was somewhere else, as always.

The alehouse around him was crowded and noisy, full of merrymaking. This year's harvest in the south of England had been good and people had some coin to spare, many for the first time in recent memory. So places like the alehouse profited.

The sheriff liked to keep at least one of his men posted there, and tonight it was Godric's turn. Though nothing of importance ever happened, and the sheriff had said nothing about not being allowed to drink while on the job.

So Godric was three, maybe four, cups in when he heard a rustle behind him.

Though it was getting late in the evening, he didn't think the commotion was much to think about, much less worry over: a door opening and closing, a cold wind hitting the back of his neck in the process. A word of welcome from the alehouse owner, and the word of thank you from the woman that had entered. Even with his senses dulled he could tell that the woman spoke with a genteel tone, but with a strange accent. His interest peak slightly. Travelers in these parts were rare, especially so in the winter months. But he kept his eyes on the fire. She was a woman, and unlikely to cause the sort of trouble that would require an action from the sheriff’s employee. 

But the rustling behind him shifted closer. He was still unconcerned. It was cold. She probably wanted a seat nearer to the fire. The rustling came closer still. And no sooner did the hairs on the back of his neck stand up with something other than a chill than he found himself on his feet, sword unsheathed, and at the neck of a man with leathery skin and an unkempt black beard. Vaguely he was aware of knocking over his cup in the process.

The entire alehouse fell silent. The man inhaled sharply in surprise, but Godric saw that he already had a wand pulled out in defense, though it was hidden from the view of the crowd. 

“Aye, Godric, put that down!” the alehouse owner called to him. “You’ll be scaring off my customers. And you’re drunk besides!”

Godric did not do as commanded, not with a wand pulled on him. He only narrowed his eyes. He didn't want to make a scene, but he would not be threatened by a stranger in his own city. He stretched the fingers on his other hand. He knew where his wand was...

A woman appeared in the corners of his eye and attempted to step between them.

"There's no need to fight," she said in that strange accent. He realized it was Scottish. "We're not here to hurt anyone." 

Her skin was pale and clean like a noblewoman's, and he noticed she was wearing in a blue dress under her traveling cloak. Even half concealed, he could tell it was made of fine fabrics. Finer than any of the dresses he had seen on the women in Brycgstow, except perhaps Leofric's wife. 

But woman or not, and noble or not, Godric knew better than to trust someone just because they said they were trustworthy. He could take two people, he knew, even in his current state. He’d done it plenty of times before, and these two, despite their apparent magical talents, didn’t look like any match for him. In one swift motion he pulled his wand out and pointed it at her. All of this was subtle. As far as anyone else in the alehouse knew, it was still just Godric's sword involved and no wands. It wasn't worth letting the non-wizards here think they were in any danger before he was certain there was any.

The woman did not return his actions with her own wand. Instead, she just smiled.

“Do I really look so different?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper. The tenor was warm, like that of a lover. "I thought you might recognize your old friend from Jorvik.”

He squinted at her, head spinning just a little. He saw she had dark hair that fell straight around her face, lilac eyes that questioned everything, and lips that were constantly turned up in a knowing smile. And most obviously, she had six _black_ dots over her eye instead of the customary female white. She had to be… but how was this possible?

He lowered his weapons and gaped at her with incredulity.

“Rowena.”

______

10 minutes later they were drinking and chatting away so cheerfully the casual on-looker would never know that they’d been mere seconds away from an all out brawl, though many in the alehouse decided to leave after their little show.

Rowena introduced her traveling companion, Harold, who seemed a decent man when his wand wasn't pointing at Godric's chest. He was surprised to see that Harold's face lacked the tattoos given to magical children. Perhaps the laws were different in Scotland? Or perhaps he was a born to non-magical parents who had gotten him out of it...

It didn't matter, really, and Godric didn’t think he could ask. Besides, the man did not seem to speak Anglo-Saxon. So he stood guard, his back to the pair of them as they conversed.

Godric focused on how happy he was to see Rowena again. It had been three decades since they'd parted before the fall of the Danelaw in Jorvik, now called York. And while they had attempted to keep in touch via letters, it was hard to know where the other was, especially with the regularity that Godric moved around. Plus, he wasn't great with reading. He _could_ read, sure, his guardian in Wintanceastre had seen to that, but he found it difficult sometimes. And Rowena wrote with the cadence and vocabulary of a great lady, so he struggled to keep up with the finer details of her life.

When they had settled in by the fire again with fresh drinks, and the initial shock of seeing her wore off, Godric began to feel anxious. Why was she here? It was a long journey from the Scottish highlands to the south of England.

She smiled widely when he asked.

“I’ve had a vision," she stated. Her tone was matter-of-fact, not dreamy like that of most seers. "I was flying through the Cairngorms forest and saw a frog. I followed it up the side of a mountain and it showed me… a location.” Her eyes flashed with excitement. “On which we are meant to build a school." 

She kept her eyes on him, clearly expecting him to return the excitement. He could not, and just gave her a blank look. A school? What was she getting at? He raised his glass to drink again. Rowena was always on about some plan, even when they were children. He thought he might need more drink to handle whatever fit of absurdity she was about to throw at him.

"A school for young wizards and witches!” she continued. “To train them to be all sorts of things: mages and merchants and warriors. Oh Godric, isn't it wonderful? We can give our people an education!”

Godric snorted into his ale. He had been right about assuming this would be absurd. A boarding school for witches and wizards? The non-magical folk would never allow it. Not when so many of their own were so uneducated.

A million clever quips ran through his head at the impractically of it, but he saw the way her face fell with hurt at his laughter. He changed course, deciding to ask the most obvious question. “And with what funds are you going to do that?”

Their people were so poor. A parent would never be able to afford to send their child away to a _school_. Which is not to say that they did not value education. Sometimes, a city or hamlet, if enough wizards lived in the area, would allow the magical children to gather on Sundays to learn a few practical spells or potions. But if a city was too small or too intolerant of such behavior, the children would just have to learn whatever their parents could teach them, which usually wasn’t much.

Rowena lifted her chin a little before responding, trying to recover her dignity. “The crown of Scotland has agreed to support the venture. King Kenneth is looking to improve relations with England and Wales, as well as improve the fortunes of his own people. And _I’ve_ convinced him that this is a good start. Plus the various Kingdoms in Wales have agreed to donate some other necessary items: textiles and wand cores.”

Godric provided a confused frown. So she’d had a vision of a frog climbing a mountain, and that had been enough to convince a group of Kings to fund a school for the most hated group of people in Britain. He had to admit he was impressed. But then, Rowena had always been persuasive. 

“Ok..." he replied, his voice heavy with skepticism. "A school. Sure. What’s it got to do with Brycgstow?”

“Right. We have been traversing Wales for the better part of a month, gathering support. And all the lords said the same thing: Hælga of Powys must be allowed to teach there, and if she agrees, we will support it.” Rowena paused thoughtfully. “She seems a formidable figure. Do you know of her?”

Godric wracked his brain. Somewhere in his memories there was perhaps a mention of the Welsh witch, but he could not remember anything specific. He shook his head.

“We were on our way to Powys to ask her when we heard that the Young Gryffin of England was in Brycgstow **,** and since you were on my list to find after Hælga anyway, I didn’t want to risk missing you. We came straight away.”

“Me? You came to find _me_?" He was surprised. Up until now he had assumed she stopped by merely to say hello, passing through Brycgstow on her way to somewhere else.

“Yes” she said simply. “Of course. I mean for you to join me. To come teach at the school as well.”

Godric stared at her for a moment, trying to comprehend what she was asking. And then he laughed at her. Loudly, heartily. “You’re half mad, Rowena, if you think I’ve got any business teaching anything to anyone.”

She scowled at him.

“I’m not,” she retorted. “Listen. I need someone from England, someone who has a good relationship with the King and his mother, and most importantly, someone skilled at dueling and animagustry.” She leaned in closer. He could feel the warmth from her skin and smell her perfume. The room was fuzzy around the edges of his vision thanks to the ale, and she was intoxicating. She knew it, too. “I need someone I can trust. You’re the only one.”

He leaned into her out of instinct, tempted to close his eyes and... But then he remembered himself, and sprung to his feet. “I can’t,” he said. And he meant it. He had been placed in Brycgstow by order of King Æthelred to work for the sheriff. The king paid his wages. “I’m on a contract."

Rowena gave him a knowing look in return, the one she was so good at. “Ah yes. I thought that might come up.”

Godric rolled his eyes. How quickly the two of them found themselves slipping back into old habits. Rowena’s ability to see the future was unparalleled, and for that he respected her. But she also had a flare for the dramatics of pulling her visions into everyday conversation, acting as though she’d foreseen _everything_. He wondered how much was magical ability versus the innate ability of every person to anticipate things that might happen in the future. Surely even the non-magical folk could do that…

She didn’t notice his eye roll, and continued. “I have an idea for how to tackle that. We’ll go to King Æthelred after we meet Hælga. It’ll help to have Wales onboard before we meet with him. And there we can make the case for your leaving… whatever this place is… and coming to Scotland.”

He was annoyed before, but he felt himself getting angrier the more she went on. After all, who did she think she was? Arriving in Brycgstow unannounced thinking that he would simply follow her halfway to northern end of the world in order to teach at this ridiculous school. As if King Æthelred would ever agree to _that_. Godric had a job here. He had a purpose. He had a decently comfortable life and he was hap... well, he wasn't happy. But he'd rarely been happy anywhere. He found it unlikely Scotland would be an exception. And the unhappiness he knew here was at least moderately comfortable as well as profitable. What would be waiting for him up there? 

While the anger built within him he muttered out a reply. “You forget, I haven’t said yes yet.”

"Oh," she realized. "Right." 

She bit her lip in thought and replied in a more hopeful tone. "Then think on it tonight. Perhaps you can clear your head a bit and let me know your answer in the morning?"

Her response did nothing to bed his anger. _Clear his head and answer in the morning_. Now she was just being patronizing. He needed to leave. To hell with whatever shift he’d been placed on in this alehouse. It was late anyway, and the place nearly empty.

"Don't hold your breath," he told her. Then turned his heel and left. She didn’t go after him.

The cold wind of late autumn hit his face once out in the street, but the ale he'd consumed kept him warm enough against it. He staggered home. 

The house he lived in wasn't anything to brag about. Like most buildings in England it was a wooden structure with a thatched roof and one room in which everyone lived and ate and slept. Its one saving grace in Godric’s eyes was that it provided him a real bed. Nothing fancy, of course, just some cloth stuffed with wool, but it was still better than most had. Most people simply slept on top of hay piled on the bare ground. 

He shared the house with the nine other men employed by the sheriff. As he stepped in he noticed Eadmund's figure in the bed next to his own, snoring contentedly, untroubled by requests from mysterious old friends trying to save the world.

He undressed. Despite his annoyance at Rowena's suggestion that he clear his head, he knew it was necessary. He was half-drunk, and tired, and didn't need to make any sort of decision in this state. Sleep would help, he thought, as his back hit the wool.

Too bad sleep refused to come. 

His mind was racing as he stared up at the roof, the conversation from earlier replaying again and again. _A school. Scotland. Rowena. Teaching. Æthelred. Helga. Rowena. Warriors. Mages. Rowena._ What would his life would look like if he agreed? He thought of a dozen young faces looking up at him with wide eyes as he explained how to wield a sword, find their animagus, point their wand, do all the things his guardian had taught him...

Except he'd do it differently than _he_ had. No fear or threats involved. 

But _could_ he do it? What if he was lousy at explaining things? What if the students disliked him? They probably would. Godric knew he wasn't a likable man, and what’s more, he never tried to be.

He sighed. Sleep was eluding him completely, and the little house was starting to feel too small to hold his thoughts. He dressed himself again and grabbed his winter cloak. Walking would have to do. 

______

The moonlight on the frozen ground was his only guide. He walked for two hours before his feet took him to the place he knew they would. He had avoided it for two months, but here it was in front of him again: Wulfgifu's grave. 

The mound was less obvious now, settling back into the earth. And despite the darkness, he could tell it was now covered in sprouts of grass and moss. There was still no marker. No one but Godric knew what lay beneath.

He stared at it, wind whipping around him. It was colder out here than in the city, and his face and ears stung. But in the way the wind caused him pain, it also sobered him, just like the grave at his feet. He breathed in slowly, slowing his heart rate that had been elevated by the exercise. He remembered the way he felt when he had placed her in the earth, the questions he'd asked himself. _Who would Wulfgifu have become, if given a chance?_

He'd imagined her becoming a great healer, or a seer like Rowena. But even if she had not done any of those things, even if her talents and ambitions had only taken her so far as a little farm with a little family outside of Brycgstow, didn't she still deserve to live with dignity? If she had owned a wand, and known how to use it, she might have gotten herself there. Instead of begging and freezing to death outside of a church, hated by some god and his callous followers.

And it wasn't just Wulfgifu that deserved better. It was everyone forced to eke out a living on the worst lands available. It was everyone who lived in constant fear of being mugged, beaten, raped, and burned to death by their own neighbors. It was every impoverished witch and wizard. It was his mother, his friends. It was Rowena. It was him. It was _her_... 

It was most especially her. Godric allowed himself to think of his wife, fully, for the first time in months. What if she had more capable with a wand? Trained as a fighter? She might be with him now, smiling up at him with her olive eyes...

He turned his face to the moon, allowing himself to be carried away in his memories. It had been four years since she died, and he still missed her every day. When he lay down at night and she was not beside him. When he awoke in the morning and she wasn't there stirring something into a pot over the fire. When the midsummer and midwinter festivals passed and her laughter didn't carry on the breeze like a song.

Sometimes, he thought, his grief was so strong and ran so deep he would be smothered by it. Or that it would be come a great pit into which he would fall in and never stop falling. She'd been everything to him. His reason for existing. And every day when he woke, he expected to see her there, even still. For a moment every day he thought he was back in York, in the little house with white roses. And when the truth hit him every morning the pain felt fresh again. The pain and the guilt of knowing it was his fault. "I'm sorry," he whispered into the darkness. "I'm sorry."

His hand moved to a pocket in his shirt, the one over his heart, where he felt it: the one small token of her he had been able to hold onto. All of her that was left with him.

He stood there for a long time before he started to walk again.

And that’s what he did for hours, in circles around the city, back and forth, until the sun rose behind the forest and he had an answer. He wondered if Rowena had known his answer all along, only pretending to give him some kind of agency in the decision. She had always been so much wiser than everyone else. When they were 10, she had foreseen the fall of the Danelaw where they grew up, and convinced her family to move north just weeks before the burning of Jorvik. By 18 she had landed a position as a mage in the court of King Kenneth, who then arranged her an advantageous marriage to the chief of clan Hræfnclea. _She is the formidable one_ , he thought.

And now she was using her status and money to do something courageous, something that would make life better for their people. He admired her. He couldn't be angry with her for something as trivial as pretending that he might say no. And anyway it was better that he arrived at the answer himself.

He reached the house just as the other men were stirring, and washed his face. Eadmund was still asleep, and still untroubled. Godric decided he'd tell him the full story later. Rowena should know his answer first.

He stepped out into the morning bustle of the city to find her, the answer close to bursting from his chest now. Yes, he would tell her. _Yes._


End file.
